Wilted Daffodils
by enaskoritsi
Summary: Grabbing his head with his hands and letting out a painful grunt, he fell to his knees and forced himself to think, to remember. He… could not…remember. What had been the color of his wife’s hair? Lucy...


_Disclaimer_ : I do not own Sweeney Todd : The Demon Barber of Fleet Street, or anything associated.

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.:. Wilted Daffodils .:.

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Pale fingers rubbed together gently, the sticky, bright liquid between them staining the cold skin a violent scarlet. The drafty room was silent except for the occasional dripping of red tears from silver, shimmering cheeks onto the wooden floor. The bustling rush that was known to be ransacking the peace below could not break through the thick soundlessness that had enveloped the room, and none of the vile unpleasantness from the streets outside could shatter the glass.

Dark eyes bore into the tainted metal, the rusty mask tinting the whites with their parasitic color. The ghostly hand that clutched the trusted appendage did not shake, so unaffected it was by the deathly turmoil that had occurred only a few seconds before. A flash of blue catching in the corner of those veiled eyes, the partner to that paper hand reached out, grabbing the forgotten scarf from the floor.

A twitch of the lips revealed a disgusted grimace before a vengeful boot slammed into the pedal protruding from the ground, a chilling screech resounding through the space. The foot pressed down harder, the trapdoor gasping for air as its lips parted in a tormented howl. The finely knit fabric was dropped through the man-made grave, fluttering through the air delicately before covering the gray face of a past victim. The pressure was removed from the steely plate, the layers creaking back into place to cover the evidence. A pair of wide, bewildered eyes tinged with pain disappeared first, than the gaping mouth, frozen in a scream. Lastly, all that remained were the ripped, gruesome pieces of flesh that had once been a tan, handsome throat. In a flash, that was gone as well, leaving only a pleasantly scuffed collection of floorboards.

Sweeney Todd plucked the dusty, familiar rag from its place next to his tools of the trade. Wiping the now drying substance off from the glittering surface, a tiny smile bristled on his lips as he stared down into his own reflection. The smile grew slightly when the blade was pristine and perfect again, twisting and lifting through the air as its master commanded. Bringing it back in front of his face, Mr. Todd felt the smile flicker and die on his face, a weak flame blown out by a relentless gust of cruel wind.

Clicking his razor shut and sliding it into his pocket, he dropped the now useless piece of cloth and slunk towards the window, his steps lithe and soundless as a serpent sliding through grass. The forgotten patch of fabric lay mournfully in his wake, crumpled and soiled from having passed through his hands.

Leaning his arm against the window, he barely noticed the frigid grasp that encircled his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt. Through the foggy, slightly scratched surface, those coal eyes peered with an intruder's stealth at the world below. Crowds of filthy people, disgusting vermin, were scattered around the streets with uncaring shouts and calls. Instinctively, he curled his fingers to clench his razor tightly, but gave a small jerk of surprise when he realized it wasn't there. Patting his pocket almost for reassurance, he resumed his post without a sound.

How long he stood there was unknown. However, the sharp eyes that glared below were sluggishly overtaken by a hazy film as the troubled man retreated into memories he'd rather keep buried in the darkest recesses of his unstable mind.

Sweeney Todd, or shall it be said Benjamin Barker, had not done much while locked behind iron bars. The atmosphere had been torturous, the days long and the nights even longer. With a broken heart and already contorted state of mind, he had done what every other inmate did, the only thing they could do.

He had dreamed.

Sitting on a wretched bed for hours at a time in the ultimate lethargy, glassy eyes had stared at the cracked ceiling dully. He had fantasized about his family, the life that had been torn into tattered pieces by jealous fingertips.

The memories were all he had left.

Sometimes he would picture Johanna, his angelic child who always smiled and giggled when he played with her childish toys. There were times he would even lift up his arms robotically, a whimsical grin jokingly plastered on his face as he tossed his fairytale baby up into the air before catching her. They had played that game so many times before…

Occasionally he would think about his barber shop. He had always felt a sort of peace in that upper-room, relishing the way those precious razors seemed to mold into his very skin. The air had smelled clean and fresh, the sharp scent of the lather and soap just dusting the atmosphere.

But most of all, he yearned for his wife, his Lucy.

Every night, every hour, every second of his imprisonment he lay curled up with his heavy head rested on his hands, pictures of a yellow-haired beauty dancing underneath his eyelids. He would close his eyes and inhale deeply, imagining he could detect her own floral, innocent scent that followed her every step. Running his thin hands against the coarse material that they called sheets, he would pretend it was the delicate, creamy velvet of her cheek.

Tearing away his eyes from the window, Sweeney Todd moved to the left a few wary steps, his gaze swimming from the floor to the wall before him. One area was lighter than the rest, a faded shape imbedded forever into the disgraceful wallpaper. Laying his hand against the aged imprint, he closed his eyes and remembered when there had been a crib there, a bright, white crib with a glowing baby girl clutching her favorite smiling doll.

He stayed there for a moment, pressing his palm deeper and deeper into the wall until he was sure the wood and plaster would crack from the sheer pressure. Turning away from the spot with a rush of agitation, the disturbed figure retreated back to its window, its sanctuary.

Leaning his forehead against the frosty glass, images swam through his foggy mind. Lucy's smile, Lucy's laugh, Lucy's adoring eyes, Lucy's loving touches, Lucy's beautiful hair…

Bruised lids lifted slightly, eyes narrowing into slits as they became unfocused.

Her hair…it had been so beautiful…

Furrowing his brow, he thought harder as he began gritting his teeth in frustration.

It had been long…and…yellow…but not yellow… it had been…?

Releasing a brutal cry of anguish, a clenched fist met the unrelenting window with a painful crack.

He had been, was, a barber. He knew every shade of yellow, from the palest to the richest. So why…

Golden.

Ash.

Honey.

White.

Strawberry.

Platinum.

Grabbing his head with his hands and letting out a painful grunt, he fell to his knees and forced himself to think, to remember.

What had been the color of his wife's hair?

Minutes passed, and only the heavy breathing from a fallen man revealed the existence of any life. If anyone had chanced to enter the room, they could easily have mistaken the wretched figure for dead, with a bowed head and rigid frame. Mr. Todd could not find the will the stand, the urge to move.

He… could not…remember.

How could he not…

He had forgotten a part of his wife, lost what he had lived for all those years and yearned for every slow passing second.

The feeling of revulsion and disbelief was devastating and crushing, ready to snap the man's bones into fragments and squeeze his heart until it burst, oozing the blood he persisted to shed.

"Lucy," he begged, his voice cracking halfway through as the word spilled from mournful, faded lips.

"Lucy..."

Raising his head slightly, unfocused eyes observed the ground until hushed whispers crawled inside of his ears. Persuasive, tempting snippets that eased the pain back into his beating case before urging him softly to take his friend from the lonely cavern of his pocket. Taking the comforting blade into his hands and caressing gently, he stared into the metal, searching for something he could not seem to find.

Lifting himself up dejectedly, the wanting eyes were not removed from the cool surface, a warped reflection returning his gaze with the same pleading look.

"You and I…" he whispered, letting the sharpened edge glisten in the dull rays of sunlight that sneaked through the window.

"Together," he spoke with a low tone, his breath fogging the blade before he reappeared, each feature drifting back into place after another.

Grinning maniacally, Sweeney leaned towards the window, almost pressing his face to the glass with his insane excitement. His eyes moved rapidly, flickering from person to person with a dizzying intensity. The courthouse loomed forebodingly in the distance, and when his eyes landed on it, they narrowed in concentration.

Words came rushing back to him, unwelcome images of his wife, so vulnerable, so innocent… The judge, rushing at her, taking her with his disgusting, greedy hands…

That same deranged smile overtaking his empty face, twisting his features into a horrible, indecipherable mess.

Pressing his razor against the window, he stared into its captivating depths, his grin greeting him with a sinister passion.

Now it was he who was judging this mass of heartless animals, this deplorable mob that clogged up the streets of London. He decided whether they lived or died; and whoever walked through that door owed their fate to his perception. Slitting their throats, he would send them to the deepest pits of hell just as he had been forgotten in the darkest recesses of the human world.

Soon enough, the legendary Judge Turpin would walk through his door, and it would be his judgment awaiting on a silver platter.

Turning around, he deserted his place and began sharpening his razor with rough, but precise movements. As every stroke raced across the surface, his grin widened, until his face was about to crack from its size. The maddened fervor overtook him until his blade was absolutely perfect, and he allowed himself to raise it to the light to admire its glowing state.

The man's judgment day would come soon, very, very soon.

Sweeney Todd couldn't wait to escort him to the other side.

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_Author's Note_: Um….I don't really even know what this is. I mean, it's…yea I don't know I'm sorry :( I just wanted to write something about Sweeney and his wife' hair, because I read something where someone stated something like "Why would they have him say 'she had yellow hair.' That is totally out of character because he knows specific hair."

To me, I thought that it was even more tragic for him to say yellow. The fact that he does know all different shades, but cannot remember his wife's…? Well maybe it's just me.

Anyway, I hope someone can make sense out of this. I think Sweeney's moods change quickly, but that's how I perceive him in a sense. In the music, he's really emotional, but in dialogue he appears more withdrawn with random bursts of fury or other emotions. Well, that's my opinion.

Oh, and the title does actually make sense. It just has to be interpreted very very much :)

Anyway, please review if you don't mind. I want to get better, and how else without opinions?

Sorry for any grammatical mistakes (and how long this "note" was).

Thanks for reading.


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